More
by CycloneT
Summary: Confession is good for the soul. [DoggettReyes]


Title: More  
Author: Tracy  
Category: DRR  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Confession is good for the soul.  
Notes: I have to thank Traci, who talked me through this fic and reassured me when I was ready to delete the whole thing for the second time! 

XxX

They caught their breaths leaning against the hood of the car, watching the moonlight dance across the filmy surface of the river. The lapping of the water and their staggered gasps were all that infiltrated the silence between them.

"Let me look at it, John."

He glanced down at his arm and shrugged off her concern. "I'm fine, Mon. It's nothing."

"Dammit. It's not nothing, it's bleeding. Now let me see it." Monica pulled his arm from his side, gently inspecting the gash that the barbed wire fence had opened up.

John snatched his arm back and walked around to the driver's side of the car. "I said it was fine. I'll dress it when I get home."

"You honestly think you're driving with that arm?" Monica asked, following him around to the door. "Give me the keys."

He handed them to her rather than argue, because truth be told his arm was beginning to throb a little.

She climbed into the car and waited for him to go around to the passenger side. "I think you should get it checked out by a doctor," she pressed, once he was seated.

"Nah, no need."

"John –"

"Will you listen to me? It's just a scratch. I don't need a doctor, and I don't need you to drive me to the ER. I just want to write our report, go home and go to bed."

"Were you hit on the head when you were doing your Mr. Invincible impression and thought you could walk through that wire fence? Because your 'scratch' is bleeding into the upholstery and I'm pretty sure that I can see bone through all your blood."

He looked down at his arm that was now definitely throbbing and still dismissed her concern. "Scratches bleed, it's what they do. I said I'll dress it when I get home and I will. Crisis averted."

"Fine. Whatever you say. Pardon me for giving a damn."

"Excuse me?" John asked, surprised at the bitterness in her voice.

"You've got a gash in your arm the size of a football field that even my untrained eye can see needs stitches, but you're fine. You obviously don't need me – yet again, so why don't you just go home, bandage that gash and wait for gangrene to set in. Then when they amputate maybe you'll have to concede that I was right to be worried about you, and you shouldn't have shut me out – also, again."

"Where is this hostility coming from?"

She shook her head and started the engine. "What does it even matter, John? It's not like you care anyway."

"That's not true. I care."

"Yeah, right. You care so much that you . . ."

He waited for her to finish her sentence and when she didn't he prompted, "That I what?"

"Nothing," she sighed. "Just forget it."

"You obviously have something to say, so why don't you spit it out?"

"Because you don't want to hear what I have to say."

"I'm sitting right here, willing and able."

"Okay. You really want to do this?" She cut the engine. "Then we'll do it. I'm tired of having to pretend that I don't care about you as much as I do because you've got your head up your ass. I'm tired of you pretending that you don't care about me because you're either too damn stubborn or too scared to admit to yourself that you're not made of stone. I'm tired of you pushing me away when it's so obvious that you need me, and I'm really, really tired of pretending that I'm okay with this whole denial thing that we're both guilty of."

He winced slightly at hearing the thing that they'd both avoided for so long being verbalized for the first time. "You really don't hold any punches, do you?"

"Did I ever?"

"No," he replied with a faint smile. "It's one of the things that I . . . admire about you."

She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice that he was yet again sidestepping the issue. "Is that all I get for laying it on the line? Admiration?"

"It's . . . more than that," he admitted. "A lot more. But I'm not sure . . . I don't know . . . it's complicated," he finished lamely.

"It's not that complicated. Either you're happy with the way things are or you're not. Which is it, John?"

He knew that she wasn't going to give up. Not now that they'd actually began the conversation that should have taken place before they even started working together. "Not."

"No?"

"No. I want more from us. For us."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. He wanted to be very sure that he got it right, so he took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. "I'm going to go to the hospital and get this gash checked out. Then I'm going to see about getting my head removed from my ass. After that . . . I'm open to suggestions."

"This next part is up to you, John."

He thought about it for a moment. He didn't want to push too far too quickly. But now that they'd finally taken a step forward he didn't want to take two steps back either. "Coffee?" he offered, knowing it sounded lame but hoping that she knew that coffee didn't mean just coffee.

"Coffee is good," she replied, with enough emphasis on the 'coffee' that he knew she understood exactly what he was offering.

"No," he shook his head as he decided to take that extra step further. "Coffee is lame. How about dinner?"

"Dinner will be nice," she said, and he swore that he could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yeah, it will."

A moment of comfortable silence in which they both grinned like idiots was broken by John's grunt at a sudden spasm of pain.

"So, to the hospital then?" Monica asked, starting the engine again.

"Yeah. My arm is kinda killing me here," he confessed.

"I think you're going to need shots," she said, glancing quickly at his arm before pulling onto the street.

"No, I think I'm good with that."

"Always better to err on the side of caution, John. Shots and stitches – I'm guessing about ten. Maybe twelve."

His grin, which had faded a little with the pain, came back full force. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Yes, I am."

He could see the smug look on her face and knew that she wasn't done yet. "You're going to say it, aren't you?

"Yes, I am."

"Go on then," he sighed. "Get it over with. I deserve it."

"John," she said sweetly, completely enjoying her position as the undisputed winner of the argument.

"Yeah?"

"I told you so."

"Mon?" he asked, a plan to knock a little of the air out of her sails already forming in his head.

"Yeah?"

"You're paying for dinner."

End.


End file.
